


Insatiable

by raiast



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU, Frottage, Graphic (ish) depictions of gore, Investigator!Hannibal, M/M, Mentions of animal abuse (not graphic or described), Supernatural Elements, Wendigo Hannibal Lecter, Wendigo Will Graham, killer!will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 08:23:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19970980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiast/pseuds/raiast
Summary: Special Investigator Hannibal Lecter is called to a baffling crime scene. His investigation leads him to one Will Graham and he discovers all at once that the matters of this case are far more simple than he could have expected.





	Insatiable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neftalei1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neftalei1/gifts).



> Killer!Will/Investigator!Hanni was prompted for me on [Tumblr](https://raiast.tumblr.com) to celebrate my reaching 50 followers. I took liberties in regards to the supernatural aspects because I had one idea that I knew I wanted to run with and couldn't come up with very many ways to spin it.
> 
> Thank you for your patience in my taking forever to get this out!

“Some of you have never been on-scene for an active ring,” Sergeant Collins had said during their briefing, “I’m sorry to say that you’ll never have seen anything like it before. There will be dogs; abused, aggressive, ready for a fight. They may be distracted by their competition, or cowed by the noise and confusion of our team busting in. They may act out instinctively in their fear. Remember that you are equipped with full kevlar gear. While I cannot say that the dogs do not pose any threat to you, our goal is to come out the other side of this raid with their lives intact.”

He had spoken as if they were going off to war. ‘The locals won’t understand you’re here to help, so don’t put a bullet in their head immediately if they don’t welcome you with open arms.’

“Even worse than the dogs: there will be men. Confused, startled, scared. Most will attempt to flee, but the instinct to fight may rise up in some of them. Do not be surprised if shots are fired. These animals know only the preservation of themselves. If they feel threatened or cornered they may act out. Keep your heads, remember your training, and we’ll be fine.”

That last little pep talk had taken place in the back of the transport van, sweat collecting and dripping against skin under the bulky gear that each of the agents were saddled with. Murphy shifted in her seat as innocuous a way as she could manage, hoping to create a bit of airflow through her heavy layers. It did little to help, she was still dripping with sweat (not from nerves, _never_ from nerves) when they had dispersed from the vehicle and settled into formation around seemingly abandoned warehouse. When the order was given, half a dozen agents breached the three entry points of the building, calling immediately for seizure and compliance.

Murphy has only been on this team for six months, and it had been a hell of a ride for the last three years through training, street beat and a brief stint in the bowels of the evidence lock-up before her superiors finally began to take her seriously and gave her the opportunity for special ops. She had worked so hard, so long, to get to where she is today. Which is why when their team converged on the building and burst forth to find not an active dog-fighting ring, but at least a dozen bodies bloodied and broken, scattered across the warehouse, Murphy was immensely proud of herself for keeping her stomach as three of the other officers heaved their dinners onto the concrete floor.

Their sergeant, as it turns out, had been correct in his prediction: it was like nothing any of them had ever seen.

\---

She had kept her cool amongst the unexpected carnage of the dogless dog-fighting warehouse, so she doesn’t exactly understand why _she_ is the one waiting outside for the special investigator. It could be worse, she knows; she _could_ be stuck babysitting the gathering civilians and reporters like three of her weak-stomached associates. (She eyes the people milling about along the edges of their perimeter, far too many for this ungodly hour of night; someone has been spreading word quickly, it seems. Murphy suspects the flash of shockingly bright red hair she catches in her peripheral from time to time might have something to do with that.) 

Though she feels like she should be inside, helping forensics sort out that shit-show of a crime scene, she also can’t deny the buzz of excitement in her gut at hearing the investigator had been called in. Murphy had heard whispers of the man before but had never had the privilege to meet him in person. From what she has heard it is quite an experience.

He is spoken of in hushed, reverent tones. Those that speak of him from personal experience can not begin to describe what it was like working with him. People say that he has an odd personality; cool and aloof one moment and then genuinely warm and friendly the next. They say he can look at a scene and inexplicably understand exactly what had transpired. There’s a tale in her family that Murphy’s maternal great-grandmother in Siberia was a shaman capable of much the same thing. The descendants claim that she could communicate with the dead to usher them forth into the next life; that she could divine wisdom and guidance from the friendly ancestral spirits that chose to remain on this plane.

Lecter is Lithuanian, quite a far cry from Siberia, but Murphy wonders all the same if Shamanism runs in his family as well, wonders if perhaps his family was one that had been deported to Siberia in the 40s. She doesn’t think it would be appropriate to ask.

He steps onto the scene and the civilian onlookers, the officers desperately attempting to handle the rapidly growing crowd, the very _air_ seems to part for him. Standing tall and lean, looking sharp and sinfully delicious in a loud navy blue and orange plaid three piece suit, Special Investigator Hannibal Lecter strides forward with purpose until he is standing before Murphy and the door she guards.

“I’m told there may be something of interest for me in there,” Lecter nods to the door behind her. Murphy shifts, suddenly finding herself attempting to stand taller, though the man in front of her has easily four inches on her and she can’t hope to match his stature in height nor confidence.

“It’s…” she doesn’t even have a word to describe it. “Yes, sir,” she says instead, obedient to a fault, perhaps, but Inspector Lecter seems to command submission by his very presence and Murphy can’t say that she minds that very much at the moment. She steps to the side and grasps the handle of the door, pulling it open and allowing the man entry. She closes it behind him as he passes through, silently hoping that his constitution is stronger than those of them left on-scene combined. He’s going to need it, if he wishes to stay in that building for more than five minutes.

\---

The warehouse itself is standard, concrete and drab. It is a big square space of nothing except what the dead men within had attempted to make it. He can see the remnants of the ring; in the middle of the empty space there is a circle blocked off by a crude ring of splintering wood and chicken wire. The concrete within the ring is painted with blood that has aged and faded to varying shades of brown. There are plenty of streaks and spatters colored the bright red of fresh blood within the building, but none of them appear within the circle of the dog fighting ring. It’s clear the only fighting that took place here was outside the ring.

Fourteen bodies lay before him, broken and bleeding, dead--at least, he’s told that is the number. It’s rather difficult to discern at first glance, as many of the deceased’s limbs have been separated from their torsos and strewn about. Many of the men’s throats have been slashed open, some have been split open from throat to navel, their insides exposed and spilling out of their abdominal cavities. Hannibal steps among the corpses (and pieces of corpses), feet lifting and setting down with careful precision between scattered limbs and trails of blood that still flow sluggishly. 

“Everyone here either organized or bet on dog fights in this ring,” Collins tells him, rather unnecessarily, though Hannibal is too polite to point that out at this time. “From what we can tell, the only bodies missing are the dogs.”

“A vigilante,” Hannibal murmurs as his sharp eyes scan over bodies and bullet casings.

“‘ _A_ vigilante?’” Collins puffs out a huff of amusement. “Try multiple. There’s no way one guy could bust in here and take fourteen guys down so effectively--using what, a samurai sword? These guys have been torn to shreds. I’d say the dogs got to them but…” the sergeant snorts and shakes his head, gesturing to the dismembered bodies. “Never seen a dog do _that_ before. And the cuts are too clean. And where the hell _are_ the dogs?”

“Whoever did this took them with him,” Hannibal guesses. Collins continues on as though he hasn’t even spoken.

“Truthfully, that is the biggest anomaly here. If those dogs didn’t know the perps, the odds of rounding them up without issue would be stacked against them. A bunch of beasts conditioned to fight wouldn’t know they were being rescued,” he turns his attention to the room at large, the forensics team that are currently taking swabs and photos, jaws clenched tight as they pick through the carnage. “I want every speck of blood swabbed and run, and I mean _every_ speck, inside the building and out. Jameson! Get outside and make sure we’re holding a proper perimeter around the building. Whichever of these guys got the dogs out surely didn’t do it with nary a scratch or bite; I’d bet my teeth on it.” 

Hannibal disagrees but doesn’t voice as much. Impossible a task as it seems, he knows just as surely that this was the work of a singular man as he does that each and every dog happily followed him out of the warehouse, tails wagging and tongues lolling. _A pied piper, of sorts,_ he muses, pursing his lips to quell the twitch of a smile that threatens to twist them. _Perhaps we should thank him for the kindness rather than condemn him, lest he return for our children._

It usually doesn’t take more than a few minutes of studying a crime scene for Hannibal to be able to deduce what had transpired with startling accuracy. This time, however, the answers seem to elude him. It was one man, of that much he is sure. One man against fourteen. And somehow he strolled into this warehouse, destroyed them all--for what was done here is far and away beyond simple murder--and skipped off with a couple of strays. Hannibal would very much like to find this killer; the mystery of how that confrontation played out is a curiosity too consuming not to sate. 

He has one working theory, of course, but he can hardly share it with the sergeant, lest his reputation tip from eccentric to outright insane. And what would be the odds, anyways, so close to Baltimore? Slim to none, certainly.

A flash of color that is not grey or red catches Hannibal’s eye and he steps closer to the corner by one of the exits, head tilting as he studies the little tuft of golden fur. He requests a pair of gloves and an evidence bag from one of the nearby forensics analysts. She complies, though she wears an expression of slight confusion as he plucks up the fur and seals it into a bag.

“It’s just dog hair,” the analyst points out.

“Dogs commonly selected for fighting tend to be short-haired breeds. Pitbulls, terriers. This fur came from an animal with a longer, softer coat; one that sheds easily. If our killer is a dog lover,” the both of them glance over to the room of slaughtered dog abusers, “it is possible he has one or two of his own. I have an associate at the forensics lab at Quantico; the very capable Miss Katz. Would you please see that she receives this sample?” 

He’s assured that she will and he’s pleased when the analyst shows no jealousy or bitterness over his preference for a different forensics lab. He’s certain the Metropolitan Police Department is competent enough, but Beverly Katz has earned his confidence time and again with her brilliantly fastidious work. He has come to find, over the last few years that he has freelanced as a Special Investigator, that Miss Katz will come through without fail.

That settled, Hannibal drifts over to another white-coat clad analyst; this one is setting up yellow markers next to each individual bullet casing that litters the floor between the bodies. “Looks like all 9mm so far. A few of them got a couple of shots off, though right now it looks like the only ones that struck home were in some of the other victims. It’s definitely not the cause of death, so I’d guess accidental rather than intentional. I’m at about half a dozen right now, a surprisingly small amount considering...” he tilts his head to the mess around them. “Whatever happened, happened _fast._ I can’t place the trauma at first look, either. Too clean to be an animal attack, too rough for knife work…”

Hannibal hums at the assessment, his curiosity sprouting claws and digging them fiercely into the back of his mind. “I would greatly appreciate a call from the medical examiner, when they’ve had a chance to catalogue the various injuries.”

The analyst lets out a soft huff of amusement. “Might take a few days, but I’ll make sure that’s noted.”

With little else for him to do but wait for lab results and, in the meantime, the sun to rise, Hannibal departs. He will need to get some rest if he’s to follow the intriguing line of deduction that is unfolding before him.

\---

The Reston Animal Rescue Center is an unassuming building on the outskirts of the city. Hannibal has no concrete reason to have driven to a shelter so far out of DC other than the simple fact that the name jumped out at him when he saw it on his search of shelters near the warehouse and he has learned over the years to run with his intuition. In any case, the half dozen shelters he visited in DC proper the day before have yielded no results, so it couldn’t hurt to expand the search.

He’s just pulled up to the building when his phone begins to buzz--a number he recognizes as that of the DC Medical Examiner’s headquarters. He’s pleasantly surprised to be hearing from the office so soon and answers immediately. “Lecter.”

“Hello, Inspector. Davis here,” the caller responds in a clipped tone. Hannibal’s lips twitch with the hint of a smile; Richard Davis is a no-nonsense man, always cutting to the straight of it unlike the younger examiners at the office, and Hannibal likes him.

“I’m surprised to be hearing from you so soon,” Hannibal admits, “Get that warehouse mess sorted out already, did you?”

A gruff bark of laughter meets his question, degrades into a coughing fit that leaves Hannibal holding the phone away from his ear for a solid ten seconds. Davis is an intelligent man with a sharp eye--catching many things that others have overlooked during their cursory examinations--but he _does_ favor his Marlboros; a filthy habit that has seemingly caught up to him in his golden years. “Not even close! We put the body count--the _torso_ count, that is--at fourteen, but we’re having trouble matching up limbs with some of them. And, well, what I really thought you might want to know: some of the fellas that got sliced open are missing pieces.”

“Pieces?” Hannibal repeats with curiosity.

“Organs,” Davis clarifies.

 _Organs._ Hannibal’s brows pull into a furrow as he considers this, his eyes locked on the small clinic through his windshield, though what he sees are the bodies and limbs scattered across a blood-soaked floor and himself, stepping gingerly through and around them. No one noticed on-site that the innards had been tampered with? He sighs at the notion, reminding himself that this is the local force his is consulting for, not the FBI. They are not quite as meticulous as their bureaucratic counterparts.

Hannibal hums softly at the thought. “It’s certain the dogs didn’t--”

“Organs were cut out,” Davis denies before he can even finish. “Not with a blade, but something definitely cleaner than teeth.”

Intriguing. Hannibal mulls that over for a moment, mind flitting through many possibilities but inevitably (obstinately) returning to the one that sets his pulse racing. “I would like to view the bodies myself once more--”

“Come over any time,” Davis grunts out a bark of bitter laughter. “They aren’t goin’ anywhere, especially without their legs.”

“I’ll keep your office informed of when to expect me,” he offers courteously, and then ends the call. He doesn’t feel the lack of formal farewell shows any impropriety--not where Davis is concerned, at least. 

The clinic is small, quaint; as plain on the inside as it is on the outside. Despite the rustic atmosphere, Hannibal is greeted promptly and professionally by a young man behind the reception counter.

“Good morning! What can I help you with today?”

Hannibal’s eyes travel over the employee, from his short dark hair to his equally dark eyes, to the smile that doesn’t quite reach passed the edges of his lips. They dart down and up his lean frame quickly, before finally settling on the name tag pinned to his breast.

“Good morning, Matthew. I was hoping, in fact, that you could answer a few questions for me. I’m an investigator, you see, working with Metropolitan Police Department in DC--”

“We’re not _exactly_ in the neighborhood,” Matthew points out, curiosity evident in his tone. “What sort of investigation brings you out here?”

“A dog fighting ring,” Hannibal explains, “or rather, the disruption of one. The local law enforcement arranged a sting on a warehouse deemed a known location. They found the perpetrators ( _most of them_ , Hannibal adds mentally), but they seem to be missing the dogs themselves. I am only curious if any breeds typical of the fighting community may have been brought here in the last few days for emergency treatment or inspection.”

Matthew’s expression darkens, his thin lips twisting as though he tastes something sour. “Awful business, that. Far too much of it happening on the East coast. I mean anywhere at all, really, but especially so close to home.” The young man twitches as a shiver runs through him at the thought. 

“Yes, it truly is a heinous hobby,” Hannibal agrees. “Do you recall any animals coming through in the last few days that may fit the bill? Evidence of injury or perhaps even just malnourished?”

Matthew shakes his head. “No, can’t say I have. I mean I’m usually day staff and we operate 24/7, but word of that kind of thing gets passed around pretty quickly between shifts.” Hannibal can feel the familiar weight sinking in his chest at another lost lead, but then Matthew tacks on, “Although…”

He can’t stop his eyebrow from quirking up in interest. “Yes?”

“Well, it’s just the owner, Will? He’s got a soft spot when it comes to dogs in need. We’re a no-kill shelter but we only have so much space, so most of the time if he or someone else comes across a dog and our kennels are full here he’ll just take them on at home. He’s got a good property for it, and they are probably better off that way, anyways, because he’s a hell of a trainer. He’s rehabilitated more mutts stamped ‘unadoptable’ than I could even count.”

“Is he a veterinarian?” Hannibal questions, interest and hope perked all at once. “Could he be treating dogs on this property?”

“Nah, not a vet,” Matthew denies, “Just a bleeding heart. If an animal really needs attention he’ll bring it in, but he does know enough to take care of the more minor stuff on his own.”

“Does he report these treatments, when he deems them minor enough?”

“Not so much,” Matthew shrugs. “Like I said, he runs the place. Doesn’t really answer to anyone. He does stop in for supplies from time to time--” the young man halts in his thought, finally aware, perhaps, that he has been rambling possibly more information than this stranger needs to know. Hannibal considers asking him if the owner had stopped by in the last few nights for supplies to treat injuries and neglect but holds the question. He sees a sudden sense of protectiveness flare up in the man’s dark eyes. It seems he is as taken with Will as Will is with stray dogs; if he has suddenly realized that more information may be damning to the owner he is not about to spill it.

“Thank you so much for your time,” Hannibal chooses to end the conversation prematurely rather than give Matthew more reason to consider tipping off his love interest. “If I have any additional questions I shall be sure to contact you,” he assures him, eyes sliding down to the stack of business cards on the counter and plucking one up almost as though it were an afterthought.

He doesn’t immediately turn on his vehicle when he settles into the seat, but rather pulls the card from his pocket to allows his eyes to trace over it slowly. Will Graham...shouldn’t be difficult to track down an address of residence at all, Hannibal wagers, and he’s growing more interested in meeting the man by the minute.

\---

There seems to be a Starbucks every three blocks as he draws nearer to the heart of the town, but Hannibal selects a locally owned coffeehouse to settle at while he awaits the information he’s requested. He orders an Americano and sits at a small table in the corner, watching the people around him with minimal interest.

He’s not surprised when his phone buzzes only ten minutes later, but he _is_ surprised to find that it’s not a text with Graham’s contact information, but a notice from Beverly Katz that the results are in on the sample he provided, instructing him to call any time.

“That was quick. Good morning, Inspector Lecter,” the analyst answers on the second ring. 

Hannibal resists the urge to tell her she needn’t call him that, since he’s done so before at least half a dozen times and the spunky woman persists all the same. He suspects she enjoys the way the rhyme rolls off her tongue. “Good morning, Miss Katz. You caught me with a spare moment. What do you have for me?”

“The fur ball you found was actually a mix of two types: golden retriever and border collie. I was hoping a human sample was mixed up in there, but no luck.”

“Thank you for checking, Miss Katz. Until next time.”

No sooner does he end the call than a message comes through with a phone number and street address for one Will Graham in Wolf Trap, Virginia. Not far away at all, and there’s a reasonable chance he may be at home, given that he wasn’t at his place of business.

The address listed takes him to the outskirts of Wolf Trap to an area where houses are few and far between, separated by field and forest. He pulls up to a modest home in the middle of one such clearing, pleased to see a man running about the open area toward the edge of the property with a pack of dogs in tow. As he nears, the dogs perk to his presence and reroute themselves to examine this visitor. Hannibal parks next to the Volvo at the front of the house and climbs out, witnessing almost immediately the training skills that Matthew had been talking about. The man strolling up to him at a pace far more casual than that of his pack lets out a sharp whistle, halting the animals in their tracks. A few of them circle back to trot alongside their master, but most hold their ground, waiting for the man to approach before they converge on the stranger. Hannibal counts seven in all.

“Can I help you?” he asks when he nears where Hannibal stands by the cars.

Up close, Hannibal can examine him a little better. He’s about Hannibal’s height, perhaps just an inch or two shorter, lean of frame and clad in jeans mottled with black stains and an unfortunate looking flannel shirt. Despite the apparel he is unfairly, devastatingly beautiful. Chocolate curls wild from wind and running tumble messily across his forehead, sharp blue eyes travel the length of Hannibal in open scrutiny. Even the layer of scruffy stubble that covers his cheeks and jaw is attractive.

“Are you William Graham?” Hannibal inquires, hopes fervently that the answer is yes.

The man comes to a halt a few feet away from him, back straightening while somehow retaining his air of nonchalance. “It’s just Will. Yeah. You are?”

“Special Investigator Hannibal Lecter,” he doesn’t offer his hand to shake, doesn’t need to touch the man to confirm what he already knows. “I’m working with the Metropolitan Police in DC in regards to a recent incident--”

“Are you talking about that warehouse scandal?”

He can only stare at the man across from him. Was he so brazen?

“It’s about the dog fighting syndicate that got brought down, right? Not much else going on around here that would require the insight of the owner of a rescue center.”

Hannibal feels one of his eyebrows twitch; he glances away from the man to straighten the arms of his jacket. “‘Brought down’ is a fairly mild way of phrasing it,” Hannibal begins.

“I read about that in the paper. They’re calling it a massacre.”

His tone is even enough, though layered with a curious emotion, and Hannibal glances back up to find a faint flicker of amusement dancing in those cold, blue eyes. So he _is_ so brazen. Hannibal purses his lips, doesn’t bother to hide his disdain. “It was conspicuous,” Hannibal corrects shortly, “and wasteful.”

The amusement breaks through as Will Graham drops his mask, plush lips spreading into a decidedly remorseless grin. “It was fun, too,” he purrs, takes a step closer. “I don’t know why you’re acting so high and mighty about it--we’re of the same ilk, after all.”

Hannibal stiffens at that declaration, his annoyance finally overriding his calm countenance. “We are _not,”_ he argues instinctively. “I hunt by necessity, not for _fun._ And I would _never_ leave such a display behind. My prey is honored in every way possible, with none of it going to waste.”

“There was nothing _honorable_ about those men in life,” Graham hisses back, his own patience having finally reached its end as well. “So they don’t deserve to be honored in death.” He barks out a breath laughter that is less than humorous. “I can’t believe you’re even lecturing me about this. I have never met someone so repressed before. It’s astounding, really.”

 _“Repressed?”_ the word is repeated in an undignified sputtering from Hannibal. “Because I hold respect and value human life?”

“Because you hold none for your own,” the man fires back. Before Hannibal can form an argument for that, Graham is continuing. _“‘Conspicuous,’”_ he parrots in a mock of Hannibal’s accent. “So _what?_ What evidence are they going to find to link it to me? How could they even explain what I did with no murder weapon?”

“You left dog hair behind,” Hannibal clips back, ignoring entirely the opening to point out that _he_ found Graham just fine.

“It was a _dog-fighting ring_ ,” Graham snorts, folding his arms over his chest as his eyes roll skyward.

“You left _his_ hair behind,” he points out, nodding to the golden retriever standing dutifully at his master’s side, watching the heated debate volley between them like a tennis match.

Graham deflates a bit at that, Hannibal is pleased to see, and under his fine layer of scruff his cheeks appear to pinken a bit in embarrassment. It is absolutely not attractive. “Oh,” is all he can think to respond with, eyes darting away to stare intently at his house.

The tension breaks suddenly, the man before him melting back into the carefree, amused form of a few minutes prior. “When’s the last time you ate?”

Hannibal knows he isn’t talking about breakfast. He’s not certain what brought about the sudden attitude change, but Hannibal does not find himself affected in the same way. He scoffs openly at the question. “I see no reason to share that information with you.”

Pink lips pull into a smirk. “That long, huh?”

“Certainly not as recently as you.”

“Probably why you’re so grumpy,” Graham points out. He shuffles his weight so that he is leaning a bit closer, the hard, defensive expression on his face gone to one more friendly and playful. “Hunt with me,” he suggests, and Hannibal reels. “I bet you’d have more fun if you did it with someone else. _Especially_ me; I’m very good at having fun.”

“I’ve seen the warehouse full of bodies to suggest that that is true,” Hannibal responds primly, taking a step back to keep a respectable distance between them. “It is about time that I be going,” he states, ignoring entirely Graham’s extended invitation. “Good day, Mr. Graham.”

“See you, Hannibal,” Graham drawls back, completely nonplussed at having been refused.

He pauses just as he’s about to climb into his Bentley, hand on the door and body twisting around to face the man once more. “I assure you, you won’t,” he disagrees.

He does not like that the sound of Will Graham’s chuckle is heard over the slamming of his door, the rumble of his engine as it turns over, nor the fact that it seems to echo in his ears miles yet down the road.

\---

He makes a detour through DC on his way back to Baltimore to stop at the Medical Examiner’s office. After all, it would be strange for him to state that he would and then change his mind, especially if the case is still open.

And it will stay that way, won’t it? Because if there’s any way to indict Will Graham for the lives taken at the warehouse--without attempting to explain that the man in question is a beast of legend that must devour the flesh of men to survive, that is--Hannibal hasn’t the foggiest notion as to what it could be. As much as it pains him to admit it, the infuriating man is right: the blame will never fall upon his shoulders. It will remain a curiosity for some time, roused every few months or so, perhaps, for cursory investigations and interviews, but will eventually find itself in a box with other cold cases and there it will remain.

What bothers Hannibal is not so much the fact that the victims’ killer will never face justice--they were, as Graham had pointed out, quite unsavory characters--but that his track record will suffer for the lack of closure. He is, after all, the man they call when they want something done and Hannibal has, heretofore, _always_ gotten it done.

Davis is on lunch when he arrives, so Hannibal is brought to the bodies by one of his lackeys, who he greets and thanks politely and then ignores completely. He looks over the bodies, particularly the ones that were missing various organs, and pretends to be interested in what he sees. There’s really no point in any of this now; his curiosity has been sated. 

He knows what the claws that severed limbs, eviscerated bodies and yanked out organs look like. He knows how sharp the teeth are that tore into that meat, how quickly and effortlessly it would slide down the gullet. Knowing for certainty now what had happened that evening, especially having met Graham in person, Hannibal can see the way the creature would have crouched on its haunches over the cooling bodies, feasting until it had eaten its fill. He can see it as clearly as if he had been there as well.

His mind flickers back to the invitation he rebuffed just an hour before, his traitorous imagination shifting the image in his mind’s eye so not one but two of the creatures hover over the bodies, sharing the kill while careful not to linger too closely to each other; it wouldn’t do for that territorial instinct to rear its head and ruin what was meant to be a friendly endeavor. Hannibal can see blood on Will Graham’s lips, dripping down his chin. He wonders what it tastes like.

“Gruesome, isn’t it?” One of the younger examiners had appeared at his side at some point. He mistakes the grimace twisting Hannibal’s mouth for one of shock at the bodies before him.

“Certainly,” Hannibal replies brusquely, lets him think what he thinks. The examiner needn’t know that Hannibal was actually frowning because he had just realized that he was considering what it might be like to make out with Will Graham. The aggravating man had already invaded his work, and now it seems as though he’s planted roots in Hannibal’s mind as well.

\---

Sergeant Collins isn’t pleased to hear that Hannibal had turned up nothing over the course of his investigation. His disappointment is not surprising, but also not entirely warranted. He has an actual staff of officers that have turned up just as much, after all. Over the course of the next few weeks, Hannibal endeavors to push the entire incident from his mind.

He does not succeed. He finds his thoughts flitting back to consider the Other more and more in the days following his investigation. On one occasion he turned a corner to spot the back of a head covered in dark, unruly curls walking down the street ahead of him and found himself frantically attempting to decide if he should quicken his pace to catch up or turn and walk in the opposite direction. As he had stood frozen, indecisive, the man had twisted his body to cross the street and Hannibal discovered with both relief and disappointment that it was not Graham after all.

He could have managed to continue on living in this sort of limbo, he thinks, where he knows that Will Graham exists but obstinately refuses contact with him--and then he wakes up Hungry.

The first thing that registers, when he wakes that day, is the hollow ache at the core of him. The second is desolation. He knows from experience that the ache he feels now will only grow in intensity. It will slowly (and then rapidly) begin to consume him until his mental faculties begin to degrade and then break down entirely. If he doesn’t feed by that point, he runs the risk of losing control, that primal part of his brain switching to survival mode and doing whatever it takes to obtain nourishment. That would likely result in a bloodbath.

Hannibal never allows his Hunger that much reign over him. Neither does he feed as impetuously or needlessly as Will Graham does. He waits until that hollow ache begins and then he feeds it before it can blossom into something more. He selects prey that he can use in its entirety, harvesting organs and flesh and marrow alike to store and stretch his time between feedings even longer. 

The first thing he does is double-check his freezer, though he knows already that he will find nothing that will sate him within it. He had eaten the last of his stored loin over a month ago, had known at the time that he was depleting the last of his stores. He opted to play the waiting game, as he usually does, to see when the Hunger would return before he went on another hunt. He has lasted up to three months between feedings before necessity pushed his hand. This was a shorter stretch. He wonders if perhaps coming into contact with another of his kind activated some sort of biology within him that hastened the process. 

As soon as his thoughts drift to Will Graham, the ache inside him pulses, strengthens. There’s something else as well, something he hasn’t felt before. His curiosity to learn more about the other man, his odd desire to group when he’s never considered it before--it’s all grown even stronger.

 _“Hunt with me.”_ Will Graham had said, and Hannibal _wants_ to.

He thinks about the lithe man, almost as tall as himself and surrounded with an air of arrogant casualty that is somehow both charming and incensing. He thinks about his striking blue eyes and wonders what color seeps into them when the Hunger comes calling. He wonders if they turn the same shade of red as his own amber eyes do, or if the color is something closer on the spectrum to his natural blue. In all likelihood, he doesn’t allow the Hunger to take him over enough to show any physical changes; he feeds too often for that to happen.

He had pictured Will once, weeks ago, as a creature huddled over his kills, claiming his reward. He did not allow his imagination to draw up the image a second time, too disconcerted with the twinge of arousal in his gut and the light fluttering in his chest. Now, he closes his eyes and imagines what it might be like to hunt with the man. He would remain clothed, Hannibal thinks, but possibly go barefoot--he would like to feel the earth beneath his feet. He would start on his own land, run through the trees and fields until he found a candidate he considered worthy of his effort. He doesn’t know if Will would play the friend, luring his prey closer, playing with his food, or if he would descend all at once like a great and terrible shadow. He doesn’t know enough about the man to guess.

He imagines it both ways: 

Will stumbling upon a lone hiker, smile easy and eyes light, helpfully giving them directions, if they are lost, or perhaps playing the role of the lost and helpless himself.

Will catching scent of his dinner a quarter mile off, stalking in silence until his prey is in sight and then lashing out with teeth and claws so that he already has a mouth full of blood and his victim lies dead beneath him before they even understand what is happening to them.

He likes it both ways.

He wants to see it both ways.

\---

His arrival, as he expected, is heralded by a cacophony of barking dogs. He can hear them within the house before he even cuts his engine, and before he’s finished climbing out of his car Will is in the open doorway, leaning casually against the frame. His eyes hold a sharpness that Hannibal can’t place as interest or annoyance, until they dart down to the bottle of wine he’s pulled from the passenger seat and they grow mirthful with amusement.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be coming back, but if you did I figured it would be with a warrant, not wine.”

The Hunger throbs when he hears his voice, smooth and scathing but not unpleasant.

“If you have a reasonable suggestion as to what I would list as probable cause for the judge I’d be happy to hear it,” Hannibal intones.

Will jerks his head toward the interior of his house, as good as invitation as any, really, so Hannibal ascends the steps of the porch. Will waits until he is out of the path before stepping away from the door and giving a sharp whistle. The dogs come barreling out, a seemingly endless stream of them. They are well trained indeed, most buzzing passed Hannibal and out into the yard without even sparing him a second glance.

“Your pack has grown,” he notes out loud, eyes lingering over the mutts, some of which finding trees on which to do business and others romping through the tall grass together in play. “I counted seven, the last time I was here.”

“Four are from the fighting ring. I had them separated from the rest before because they weren’t ready to be introduced to the pack dynamic--too much trauma. It lingers, but they fit in well now. Mostly understand that the others are playing when they take a nip.”

Hannibal glances over to the man as he speaks, but his own blue eyes are locked on the roving pack, brimming with fondness and dedication. Something that is distinctly Not Hunger aches within Hannibal to see it. He finds himself the subject of their focus before he can prepare for it and he finds himself uncharacteristically tempted to shy away.

“Mostly?” he asks, forcing himself to remain positioned exactly as he is.

Will’s lips twist into an easy grin. “They _are_ dogs. Their primal brains kick in a lot quicker than ours do. The rest of the pack have learned not to test their boundaries with them, stick to rough-housing with the older members.” A brief silence between them, broken only by the occasional happy yip of a dog behind them, and then: “You’re Hungry.”

It’s stated as a plain fact; no judgement, no taunting.

Hannibal swallows, licks his dry lips. “I am,” he admits, because he knows that there’s no denying it.

Will nods once, then turns to step back into the house. Hannibal follows him into the kitchen, where Will is removing two tumblers from a shelf and retrieving a bottle of whiskey from a nearby counter. He pours them each a few fingers of the amber liquid--the same color Hannibal’s own eyes would be if the Hunger hadn’t started to encroach--and pushes one of the glasses down the counter to where Hannibal stands. Hannibal replaces the bottle of wine in his hand with the tumbler of whiskey.

Will waits a moment, until they’ve each savored a sip of the liquor, and then tells him, “I don’t keep Food on my property. Call me paranoid, but it always seemed like an unnecessary risk.”

Hannibal studies the liquid in his glass. “I didn’t come for a handout.”

“But you didn’t just come to hunt either, did you?” Will shoots back, and that draws Hannibal’s gaze. Will tips the last of his drink and then sets the glass to the counter. His eyes are shrewd, seem to be measuring Hannibal in some way, though he can’t quite detail how. “There’s something else, isn’t there? Deeper than the Hunger.”

Hannibal drains his own glass as well before he answers, “Yes.” He is both irritated with and intrigued by the chill that shivers down his spine as Will steps closer to him, slowly, but with purpose.

“It’s...a compulsion,” he guesses; Hannibal nods. “Almost instinctive.” Another nod. They stand closer than they ever have before, mere inches separating very intimate parts of their bodies; the very air seems to spark between them and Hannibal’s gut twists in a very pleasant way. When Will speaks again, his words puff hot breath across Hannibal’s neck. “It draws you to me.”

Hannibal swallows around the lump in his throat, desperately attempts to ignore the way the ache that is Hunger and the ache that is Not both pulse insistently within him. “You feel it as well,” he guesses, earns that smirk of Will’s that Hannibal has seen often enough to deem it trademark.

“I’ve felt it since you showed up on my lawn and yelled at me for being reckless,” Will chuckles. Hannibal doesn’t know how he could have _ever_ forgotten how beautiful Will’s laugh is. “I think it’s the Other part,” he continues, “letting us know that we’re a good match.”

“I don’t have any experience with such a thing,” Hannibal admits.

“Nor do I,” Will murmurs. “But I do know of another surefire way to tell.” He shifts closer, those last inches closed as their bodies brush against one another and even with them both fully clothed the sparks catch and turn to flames.

Hannibal tilts his head down to close the last remaining distance between them, capturing Will’s mouth in a heated kiss. Will’s hands find his hips, lips open obediently beneath Hannibal’s own, and when their tongues meet in an entanglement that is both battle and dance, the ache that is Not Hunger seems to submit to their passion, diminishing with each new exploratory touch until their hips press against each other’s and it is quelled entirely. 

Another ache arises within Hannibal when he feels Will’s arousal straining against the confines of his jeans as ardently as his own, and this one is entirely identifiable: human, primal, lustful.

His jacket is lost to the kitchen floor and then Will is ushering him backwards, still connected at lips and hips but both sets of hands clawing at everything else that separates them. They’ve both lost a substantial amount of clothing by the time he is being pushed down onto the mattress in the living room (the logistics of such a thing make little sense to Hannibal at the moment, but he can’t really be too bothered to expend any effort considering it). And then Will is atop him, grinding his hard length against Hannibal’s (Is it really only their briefs that separate them now? Where did their pants end up?) as his hands travel the expanse of his bare chest.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” the man above him moans, mouth moving down to leave wet kisses along the column of Hannibal’s throat. “I’d have fucked you that first day, I think, if you hadn’t been so cross with me.” His teeth graze across Hannibal’s collarbone and then his hot breath washes over his chest as Will lets out a breathy laugh. “Oh, fuck it--I still would have, if you’d have been into it.”

Hannibal moans, hips bucking up desperately to chase the connection between them, his own hands running down the expanse of Will’s back and then back up again when he realizes how pleasurable the dichotomy of soft skin and hard muscle is. “I haven’t stopped thinking of you,” he admits, and he can’t find it in himself to be embarrassed when the statement ends with a gasp as Will’s hand snakes beneath his briefs and closes around his throbbing cock. “I wanted to--tried to--” he moans as that hand begins to pump him at a languid pace, his own falling down to Will’s hips to push frantically at his underwear.

Will shifts with him, wiggles his hips to help work his own briefs free and uses his free hand to peel away Hannibal’s. When they are bare together, Will shifts his body and adjusts his hand so that both of them are wrapped in his grip. His palm is dry, callous-rough--from what, Hannibal realizes, he doesn’t know, but it’s not unpleasant. He strokes up the length of them, hand twisting over heads that are leaking copiously, dragging the fluid back down their shafts to ease the way.

“I didn’t realize until I saw you again but I think--” he breaks off with a moan as Will collects more of their fluid and the glide along them becomes slick. “I think the hunger I felt for you was even greater than-- _Oh--”_

Will drops his mouth back down to Hannibal’s and he can feel the way those plush, red lips curl into a smile against his own as he murmurs, “I’m here now. I’m yours. Eat your fill, baby.”

Hannibal comes when Will’s tongue slips between his lips to curl against his own. He finds it intensely erotic that Will’s own orgasm takes him only moments later. They lay together, covered in sweat and come, mouths panting openly against each other as they spiral back into themselves, regain their faculties.

The lovely bodily buzz of his orgasm still zips through his nerve endings in pulses that slowly grow less frequent. He feels the typical hazy, post-coital contentment settle warmly within him, but deep at his core the Hunger still throbs insistently, unsated. Hannibal forces his eyes open, brings a hand up to card through Will’s sweaty curls until he does the same.

“Hunt with me?”

Will’s lips curl into a lazy smile, excitement laced with Hunger flashing through his eyes at the suggestion. 

“I thought you’d never ask.”


End file.
